Has The Stag Stopped Screaming?
by NightComesSwiftly
Summary: - Diana, goddess of the hunt, is close friends with Actaeon until the night he attempts to force himself upon her. She transforms him into a stag, and her own hounds tear him to pieces.- A series of murders involving in archer arise near Will Graham's home in Wolf Trap Virginia, putting him into a dangerous situation.
1. Prologue: Diana and Actaeon

Prologue: Diana and Actaeon 

_Many variations of this particular myth exist, the most popular of which portrays the hunter, Actaeon, as an unfortunate hunter who stumbles upon the goddess bathing one night and is dumbstruck by her beauty. Diana, outraged, flings water from her bathing pool upon him, transforming him into a stag and robbing him of his ability to speak. No longer recognizing their master, Actaeon's own hounds attack him. _

_The myth is meant to remind mortals of the cruelty of the gods, illustrating, in particular, Diana's own mercilessness. _

_However, many other versions of this myth exist. In some, Diana and Actaeon were close companions. Sometimes the hounds are Diana's. _

_Sometimes Actaeon is not so innocent._

* * *

This is the story that Will Graham sees as it washes over his burning mind. He is sitting, shivering, on the bathroom floor. He is not wearing any clothes, and blood is mixing with the water that drenches his body.

In his mind he is somewhere else; he is in a forest.

* * *

_ Actaeon was once a great hunter and a trusted companion of the dark-haired and solitary goddess, Diana. _

_One night Diana went to bathe in a dark and sacred pool deep in the forest, guarded by her hounds and by the chill light of the moon above her. Actaeon crept silently into the clearing, his mind full of wickedness. He attempted to force himself on the goddess, whom he had been lusting after since the beginning. Diana dipped her hand into the water of the sacred spring and flung the drops upon Actaeon. _

_His face lengthened, his eyes went dark, and antlers began to sprout from his skull. Diana had transformed him into a stag. _

_Diana's hounds, no longer recognizing their master's companion, as he had become a beast, fell upon him and tore him to pieces._

* * *

Will Graham is still shivering. He has the kind of cold that cannot be easily broken, the kind of cold that will stay with him for quite some time. He knows where he is; he knows how he got there, but does wonder _why_.

He wonders why the dogs have not stopped barking.

He wonders why the stag has not stopped screaming. It must be unconscious by now, if not dead, but he can hear sharp and clear inside his skull.

Perhaps it is only an echo.


	2. Chapter One: Cruel Diana

Chapter One: Cruel Diana 

(Three-and-a-half weeks earlier)

_I am in the woods of Lake Ridge Park, Prince William County, Virginia. The time is 2:33 in the afternoon. _

_My victim is a white male in his late forties. He is overweight, not grossly so, but enough to give him a substantial roll around his waist. His time of death is somewhere between midnight and one o' clock last night. I gave him the drug to make him sleep, but I couldn't predict exactly when he was going to wake up. _

_A pair of hikers, husband and wife, left their trail at around ten thirty this morning. They are newly married, looking for any chance to be alone together. The excitement will leave their marriage within the year. They stumbled on the body a mere hundred feet from the trail; it's a miracle the smell hadn't alerted anyone else by then. _

_The body is already rigid and blue due to rigor mortis, but the frigid November wind has stiffened it to an even greater extent, preserving it. _

_The body is naked, eyes open, expression blank. Its cheek is pushed against the dirt, forcing its lips to open and exposing a thin line of teeth. A single arrow protrudes from the corpse's back, saluting like a flagpole from its place between its ribs. The head of it has torn a lung and buried itself fully in the man's heart. _

_The pendulum swings once, twice, three times. _

_Beverly Katz vanishes from her squatting position beside the body. The other members of the forensic team follow suit. Then it's the police's turn. The yellow tape around the clearing is a formality; the park has been closed to prevent more hikers from stumbling across the scene, but it too is swept away in one swing of the pendulum. _

_The freeze-dried blood on and around my victim's body retracts back into him, becoming warm again and flowing out towards the veins in his extremities. _

_I walk backwards, my eyes still ahead. Ten yards, twenty, fifty, one hundred, one hundred and ten. He can only run so far given his weight and the mild heart condition he will die not knowing he had. I crouch down behind a set of bushes. The sun has been wiped from the sky, rolled away by the austere blackness of night. The moon is a bright sliver in the sky, providing all the light I need. _

_Martin Bishop awakes, naked, freezing. The temperature drops as low as fourteen degrees. He is recovering from the drug I administered less than two hours ago, although, having regained consciousness, he is in a much better condition than he was. He does not know where his clothes are; he does not know where he is. He will die lost, confused, wondering what has happened to him and why. _

_This is my design. _

_I fire my first arrow at his feet. It scrapes his left heel and drives into the dirt. This is not a miss; the arrow lands exactly where I want it. I tell him to run, and he is glad to oblige. As the large, pasty target that is his body crashes through the branches, I walk towards the arrow and retrieve it. I am giving Mr. Bishop a head start. This is not generous of me; I do this to all of my victims. After all, without the thrill of the chase, the joy of the hunt, what's the point? _

_This is my design. _

_Now I begin to run. I am much, much swifter than Mr. Bishop, but his fear gives him speed. Unfortunately for Mr. Bishop, it is not enough. I release my second arrow of the night as Mr. Bishop bursts into a small clearing, the light of the barely-there moon striking his back. The arrow pierces the skin below his left armpit, driving deep between his ribs. He falls forward, face hitting the dirt and crumpling like a pillow, one hundred and ten yards from where he woke. _

"Will, talk to me."

Will Graham is rudely jolted from his reverie by Jack Crawford, who claps him solidly on the shoulder with a broad hand. The profiler draws a rattling breath and wipes his glasses hurriedly.

"We're looking for a woman, late forties, Caucasian – serial killers tend to hunt within their own ethnic groups…" He coughs, rubbing his hands together. Even in the afternoon the park is still deathly cold. A detective squeezes between two police cars and hands Jack a pair of coffees. He offers one to Will, who accepts it gratefully. Jack thanks the detective, who Will has never seen before. "She's very athletic, most likely attractive. I'd put her somewhere between 5'8 and 5'10."

Jack blows on his coffee, regarding Will with a weathered and a furrowed brow. He dismisses the young detective with a nod.

"Who's the new recruit?" Will asks, sipping his coffee with a grimace.

"Officer Tracy Hicks, she's just been reassigned."

Will follows the austere man in a slow circle around the body, watching as he stares concernedly downwards.

"Is there a reason I'm just hearing about this killer now?"

"The three previous victims were all found in different national parks, they took it up with the government. They just turned it over to us now."

"Why?"

Beverly Katz has overheard their conversation and replies to Will's inquiry before Jack has a chance to.

"She's never left an arrow before." As if to punctuate the statement, she tugs the offending object smoothly out from between the victim's ribs. "The local police thought the others were _stabbings_." She turns around with a scoff, raising the bloody arrow beside her smirk.

"It's a nice arrow," Will observes.

"Do you know much about archery?" Jack asks, taking a long sip from the cup in his hand.

"No," Will replies with a shaky laugh, "it's too much like shooting a gun; I never got into it." He rubs his arm with his free hand, gulping down the coffee. He blinks, a dull ache in his head making him wish that he had a Bufferin tablet to go with it. "But," he continues, "The arrow is obviously of fine make. She's very passionate about her work."

Beverly regards the arrow, weighing it in her gloved hand. "It's heavy," she observes.

"So she finds her victims in bars, drugs their drinks," Jack begins, "drives them to a secluded place and hunts them down. Why? What's the point of all the elaboration?"

"It isn't about the murder," Will explains, his jaw twitching, "The whole point is the hunt, the chase."

"So how's she choosing the victims?"

"All are men, late forties, indicating that she is too. They're married…" He blinks, seeing the connection in full. "She seduces them, in the bars I mean, to see if they take the bait. The victims are all serial cheaters."

"So her husband cheated on her, and now she's taking it out on other sleazebags like him?" Beverly says, summing it up plainly.

"It's also about humiliation," Will elaborates, tilting his head to get a better view of the victim. "She could take them to some secluded forest, but she chooses parks, places with hikers. She wants them to be found so their failings can be made known."

He squints. Jack and Beverly exchange a glance.

"I hunted you like the animal you were," Will whispers softly, letting his gaze linger on the man's dead eyes for a few seconds longer. "She doesn't take trophies, it's only ever about the hunt itself, not the result."

"Why didn't she take the arrow with her this time?" Beverly asks after a moment, "She's never left it behind before."

"She loves her arrows," Will says, "she would never leave one behind voluntarily. Someone spooked her, and she ran."

"Which means," Jack points out, "that we have a possible witness."

Will nods, but his eyelids twitch painfully. The ache in his head is even stronger than before.


	3. Chapter Two: When Actaeon Was Charming

Chapter Two: When Actaeon Was Charming 

"How did you know that it was a woman?" Dr. Hannibal Lecter asks, the tones of his voice smooth and sibilant.

Will Graham does not look at him as he considers the question; the calculated alignment of his spectacles prevent any possibility of eye contact. Hannibal knows that this is a purposeful habit, he deduced it the moment they met, but his hands itch with irritation nonetheless. If he could, he would reach out and lift the profiler's glasses right off of the bridge of his nose.

But that would be rude, not to mention impossible considering the distance between their chairs.

Will takes a breath. He has a peculiar habit of baring his teeth when he does so, like a forced facsimile of a smile.

"The whole scene had a distinctly _feminine_ air to it, the male humiliation, the motif of the hunting in the forest – out there under the moon…"

"All distinct feminist power symbols," Hannibal finishes for him, and then he watches Will nods haltingly. The brown-haired man shifts in his chair for perhaps the tenth time. It's another habit that Dr. Lecter has observed, one that is slightly more irksome than the profiler's strategically placed glasses. The psychiatrist himself sits stoically, his legs crossed, muscles barely moving. "It calls to mind the virgin priestesses of old, running wild through the forest in the dead of night. Do you think our killer is a sorceress?" It is almost a joke, and the doctor's lips tug upwards.

"She may believe herself to be," Will swallows with a frown, reconsidering, "Or she may think herself a goddess."

"Pagan goddesses were known for their cruelty," Hannibal replies, "they enacted their revenge on mortals who had wronged them without just cause or mercy. This killer may believe she is acting through divine right."

The man across from him laughs nervously. "What ever happened to the all-loving God?" He says with his smile like a grimace.

"Diana came first," Hannibal responds without missing a beat, "and Juno, and Mars. Once gods were forged in human image, not anymore. The concept of a faultless god is as newborn as Christianity."

"Are you religious, Doctor Lecter?" Will asks. He over enunciates his consonants, straining each one as if they were blades to be bitten.

"I simply have an informed knowledge of classical art and literature. I find it hard to believe in a power higher than that of the human mind."

_(A translation: "I find it hard to believe in a power higher than my own.") _

He leans forward; resting his forearms on his knees, and continues. "We each have the ability to control our own destiny."

The profiler in the opposite chair glances upwards to acknowledge the statement, and their eyes meet. This is purely accidental on Will's part, and he quickly looks at the carpet, blushing, but Hannibal does not move an inch. He has heard theory that eye contact lasting longer than six seconds betrays either an extreme sexual attraction – or a murderous intent.

Hannibal thinks to himself that, should he ever be presented with the impossible opportunity to gaze into Will Graham's beautiful eyes, he would not be able to identify which desire he would find himself feeling.

After all, the two sensations have always felt very, very similar to him.

"Are these chairs closer together than the last time I was here?" Will asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

"I just cleaned," the psychiatrist replies, leaning back in his chair once more. "Do _you_ have any interest in religion, Will?"

The bespectacled man laughs his shaky, nervous laugh. "Pray never really worked for me," he says, "plenty of god-fearing individuals have not escaped murder because of their faith."

"Is god a psychopath?" Hannibal asks with a shadow of a grin.

"Oh, he's a narcissist, to be sure."

"The gods of the Greek and Norse pantheons would suit you, Will," Hannibal suggests, "They make no pretenses."

Will looks up at Hannibal, his head cocked. This time it is voluntary.

One second, two, three…


	4. Chapter Three: Midnight

Will Graham is dreaming.

As always, the images that fill his head are dark and rushing, and the thought is present in the back of his mind that they may even be real. In Wolf Trap, Virginia, where he sleeps, safe and sound, mere miles away from the forests where men have been shot to death without mercy, the sun has only hours to wait before rising.

In Will's dream, however, it is still midnight.

Dream or nightmare? It seems pleasant enough now; his body is motionless in the sheets, but inside his head winds are gusting about in the darkness, and they are what breathe his dreams into existence.

_He is back in the forest. _

_It is the same forest, this he knows. If he walked forward one hundred and ten yards he is sure to find a body, pale white under the moonlight, eyes blacker than the death buried in its heart. _

_But something feels wrong – the trees and the wind are not as they seem, not as they should be. Perhaps the moon has shifted its position in the night sky, for it seems the leaves here are illuminated differently than before and are colder and sharper in their angles. The breezes blow in all the wrong directions, the animals refuse to chatter, and all is silent. _

_Will watches, detached, as a woman glides silently through the forest around him. _

_She seems to be made of pure moonlight, her skin the color of early winter snow, her raven-black hair tied down beneath a circlet of silver. She goes barefoot and wears a white nightgown. The garment is much like the one Elise Nichols was wearing when Will found her, pale and dead, in her bedroom. _

_He is deciding whether the woman looks more like Alana Bloom or Abigail Hobbs, when she brushes past him. Her soft hair flies out behind her, floating above the quiver strapped tightly on her back. _

_She does not acknowledge his presence; it is like he is not even there. _

_(Now she reminds Will more of Alana.) _

_A pack of hounds follow close on her heels, all as sleek and swift as their master, all as adoring and silent as the silent specter, which stands beside and watches._

_ The woman bursts into a clearing, and she finally slows her pace. Will follows, anxious, peeking out from between the trees. _

_There is a spring in the forest, out there in the clearing. It is smooth and dark, several yards in diameter. The woman bends down on the shore and thrusts two snow-white fingers through its surface, rupturing the fingernail moon reflected there. They come away crimson, dripping with thick blood. The woman smiles softly and raises them to her lips. _

_When she has licked them clean, she stands once more at full height and begins to remove her gown. It is as white as her skin, and Will barely notices when it falls away. The woman still does not remove her circlet. _

_Will feels it then, a brush of air, a huff of breath. There is something moving in the forest behind him. _

_The snow-white woman feels it too, and she turns to face the trees with an expression of beautiful terror. _

_No sooner can she scream then the ravenstag slips into the clearing, moving quicker than a thought, its head pointed downwards. Its antlers catch the woman below the ribs, piercing her naked abdomen with one, furious thrust. The stag's momentum carries it forward, plunging them both into the crimson pool. _

_Will watches as they disappear below the surface, the woman thrashing and dying (and now looking more like Abigail Hobbs than ever before), the stag's feathers bristling, and he wonders just how deep the spring goes. _

Will Graham jolts out of his dream, sweat dripping down his face as he gasps for air. The sheets are damp, and the profiler is shivering with deep cold. The curtains in his room are drawn, but he can see all the sun that is slipping inside.

It is no longer midnight – now it is morning.


	5. Chapter Four: The Arrow of Gold

Beverly Katz does not pay any attention to the body on the table. She can let Price and Zeller pick it apart all they want, she's seen a hundred like it before, pasty and unassuming, not nearly as interesting as the forces that put it there. _That, _Beverly thinks, is what she's never seen before, this arrow is like nothing she has ever held.

Unlike Will Graham and Jack Crawford, she knows something of the sport of archery. It was only a passing interest as a teenager, but just obsessive enough for her to recognize that this is far more than a 'nice' arrow. It isn't made of carbon, instead the shaft between her fingers is lovingly varnished wood. It is not just of fine make, whoever owned it loved it to death. They must be devastated by its loss.

The fletchings are sleek and dark green in color, the head sharper than a thought. Both are ruffled by use and blood.

Only one company in the country dispenses arrows such as these, and only two stores in Virginia currently have them readily available.

This, Beverly thinks, is the price of luxury for a serial killer. Rarity makes for a narrow search and a subsequent capture.

This mistake, she believes, is what will ultimately lead her to the Chesapeake Ripper, with all of his elaborate displays and his finery. When everything is so specific, the pool becomes narrower and narrower, until only one name can emerge.

Beverly runs her latex-gloved fingers over the delicate fletchings and murmurs to herself, just like she always does, a self-satisfied,

"Gotcha."

* * *

As the FBI trainee, Tracy Hicks, hands him his coffee, Will asks impulsively,

"Do you know anything about archery?"

"Hmm?" The new recruit glances up at him briefly and then ducks her head, blushing. "Quite a lot actually." As she replies, she tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. It is dark brown, each strand clearly defined against the next, and her eyes are close to the same shade. She has a milquetoasted demeanor, timid and shy, her skin a wind-chaffed pale.

Will thinks, somewhat disturbingly, that she fits the profile of a Minnesota Shrike victim to a T, a veritable poster-child for the deceased Garret Jacob Hobbs. She looks a bit like the woman in his dream, but than again, so does Alana Bloom, Abigail Hobbs, and half the female population of Virginia.

"They say my mom could have gone all the way to the Olympics," Tracy continues, "but she had my sister and, well." She shrugs, and Will hesitantly sips his coffee. "But my whole family shoots, I think I first held a bow when I was three," she chuckles at the memory, and Will thinks that her dark eyes go warm and bright. "I'm about as good now as I was then, but, well…" She trails off, lips pursed.

"Our killer knows a lot about archery too," Will interjects dumbly, and he gestures about them with a shaky smile.

Tracy clears her throat and glances at the floor. Will bites his lip, mentally kicking himself. He takes a swift gulp of his coffee to disguise his embarrassment, scalding both his tongue and throat.

They are standing in the middle of the lab, with Price and Zeller arguing to their left, and Beverly Katz actually getting work done on their right. She briefed Will on her findings so far whilst Tracy was fetching coffee, now they only await the arrival of Jack Crawford and his announcement of their next move.

This killer reminds Will of the Copycat, a huntress to be sure, but she sees her victims as pigs, making a point not to honor them, stripping them naked and leaving them to rot. He looks at the body of Martin Bishop with a critical eye.

_(A Suggestion: Could it be they are not looking for a Diana, but a Circe? After all, it was she, descendant of the sun, who found the animals deep within men and made them flesh. Both pigs and lions sprung up beneath her hands depending on men's nature._

_If she looked deep inside Hannibal Lecter's heart, deeper than any well of blood in a dream can go, would she find the noble stag or would she discover instead the sly fox, its eyes sharp and dark, muzzle wet with blood? _

_Would she see the kind and gentle friend to man behind Will Graham's eyes, or would she find something much darker indeed?_

_Might she see a wolf?)_

"Are you close with your sister?" Will asks, attempting to salvage to conversation. He could do without another woman calling him insane – another Freddy Lounds.

"Oh, yes," Tracy replies, smiling quickly. "She was almost twenty when I was born. I've lived with her ever since our parents divorced."

"Ah," Will takes another sip of coffee, this time remembering to blow on it.

This young woman is nothing like the huntress in his dream. She would never have cast her eyes away.


	6. Chapter Five: THe Arrow of Lead

_All know of Cupid, the young and spritely god of Olympus, his deviousness and mischief rivaling even that of Mercury. Where Mercury was the king and father of manipulation and lies, Cupid was the revolutionary._

_He sprang from the union of lovely Venus and raging Mars, a bastard child, a son forged from lust and war. (It was these two failures of man, we know, for which Troy fell). He was as soft and cherubimical as a Christian angel, but ruthless, wicked, a wasp among gods and men alike, for both are vulnerable to his cloying sting._

_To represent the duel natures of the love for which he stood, Cupid possessed two arrows – a sharp-tipped and golden shaft to instill infatuation – and a blunt lead arrow to induce feelings of rejection, aversion to love, and a deep desire to flee._

_(One arrow fells the stag, the other saves the wolf.)_

_One day, for his own amusement, and also to prove himself the better archer, Cupid loosed his golden shaft and struck Apollo, the god of music, light, and reason. It pierced his heart with ease and joy._

_The arrow of lead hit home in the chest of Daphne, a beauteous nymph and the object of Apollo's desires. Its numbness spread to her heart, and when she beheld the god of music she felt only coldness. Apollo, drunk with desire, chased after her, and she fled in revulsion and fear._

_What follows after is well known. It concerns sandy shores, river gods, and trees – crowns woven from laurel leaves, which grace the heads of heroes. It is a mournful, elegiac tale much like a dream._

_Yes, an often-told tale, but few know of Cupid's dread involvement, of the grinning puppeteer who hid in the rafters, tangling strings, letting them go, only ever wishing to see the picture formed when they fell to earth. Why? Because it is a variation, not always present, a mere alternate version of a classic myth._

_Now, doesn't that sound familiar?_

_After all, we are all taught of a kind and helpless Actaeon. Pay no heed to the man behind the curtain._

_Do not dare to look above you, for you will take notice of all the strings, so fine and singing, and they will lead you to the puppet master._

* * *

_10:35 p.m., Prince William County, Virginia_

The Old Salem Street Bar is buzzing this time of night, the allure of cheap liquor and women too much to bear for bachelors and husbands alike.

A thin and dark-haired woman leans against the bar, giggling and chatting with the tender on the other side. They seem old acquaintances to any looking on, with the barkeep pouring her drink after drink and slyly pointing at the men clustered around the bar. None would seem particularly appealing to a woman as gently beautiful as this one, but no two people are ever looking for the exact same thing.

A man in his late forties, heavyset, with graying hair, sidles up to the counter and snaps for a drink.

The dark-haired woman glances down at the man's large hand, making not of his wedding ring. Her eyes flash grimly, but only for a moment, and then she grins, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Each strand, clearly defined against the others, falls in brown waves over her shoulder.

The man offers to buy her a drink.

The woman watches soberly as he removes the ring from his finger and slickly palms it into his trouser pocket. Then her eyes un-focus, and she leans heavily against the bar.

A moment later, two glasses plop down between them. The barkeeper offers an encouraging smile and a hard-eyed nod before turning away.

* * *

_1:36 a.m., Prince William County, Virginia_

The barkeeper locks the door with a sigh, watching the last remaining patrons stumble their ways into the parking lot.

One in particular, a Mister Richard Booth, looks particularly unsteady on his feet.

Friends call him Dick. Rival coworkers call him that too, but it means something a little different. He had told that much to the lovely woman at the bar and she had laughed softly. He likes that, the seeming funny, the attention getting, nothing like what home is like these days.

He had gotten a phone number too, which was something he might consider. He tugs the napkin on which it's written out of his pocket and squints at it, but finds that the digits dim and dance. Usually, he thinks, he can hold his liquor better than most men, but tonight feels different.

He leans against his car. At least, he thinks that it is his car. He can't think much of anything at the moment. He holds the napkin closer to his face and frowns into the darkness.

The world is shifting, reeling, both blinding and dark at the same time. His insides are going warm and vaporous. A wave of nausea takes him, bringing with it a spell of dizziness that makes him suddenly forget how to stand.

Hands are on him before he even hits the asphalt, woman's hands, strong, capable.

Richard Booth groans as he slides along the slick, cold, ground, turning his head half-heartedly and catching one fleeting glance of his attacker.

He can't see much of anything in his dark, drugged world (yes, he knows now something other than alcohol is casting shadows on his senses), only the sheen of white, wind-chaffed, skin in November starlight and a fall of dark hair over the woman's shoulder.

Another second, and he can't see anything at all.

Ten minutes later there is a series of grunts and the sound of a trunk being resolutely shut.

A car door slams, the ignition roars, and a car slowly leaves the parking lot. Then it is silent.

A soft breeze blows pleasantly through the empty parking spaces, whistling around the sole car that remains. It waits dutifully, as machines are wont to do, for an owner who is never going to drive again.

A napkin flutters on the ground where it has been dropped, stained and crumpled. The breeze rises, and it flies beneath the car, lodging itself against the front right wheel.

It lurches, yearning to be free, bearing to the winter darkness the numbers and dashes scrawled upon it in black ink.


End file.
